Pyromania
by Pyjamas
Summary: Come night, he'd burn them. As far as he was concerned, they deserved it.


**I'm** **discovering how much I like writing in Ryou's POV, so obviously this is Ryou POV too. I don't own Yugioh, and I've just had this thing in my head all day. I've drawn it, and now I'm writing it. Enjoy; I don't mean any harm.**

PYROMANIA

Can they see it burning? Heh. What a ridiculous question, of course they can. You'd have to be blind to not see it. It's amazing what you can do with a few matches and some petrol; one minute the world will be silent and dark, asleep, and the next minute the sky will be lit up brilliantly, and the people will be running and screaming and jumping from their house windows. The sirens are there too, but there aren't any fire engines. The emergency services might as well exist for a laugh.

I've lost count of the families that have run past me, looking back towards the way they came from, dressed in pyjamas or dressing gowns. A lot of them don't have any shoes on either, which is a stupid idea considering it's really quite cold out here. It really is. However many buildings are on fire by now, it's definitely spread beyond the eight I started it off with, it's doing absolutely nothing for the temperature. Well, I suppose if I was in their shoes (or lack thereof) I'd want to be out of the house regardless of the time of year.

My art teacher, Mr Sir I call him, always said I was very good at art. That's why I didn't burn the art rooms at the school. He never directly said anything bad about my work; all he did was either praise it or tell me how to make it better. However, he did always tell me that he knew I had a masterpiece in me. See, nothing I did was ever the best it could be, or was ever the best in my class. He said that when I managed to create my masterpiece, I should tell him immediately. He liked the things I drew; he said they were very emotional. Most of them were done in black and red biro. That was my preferred way of doing things until now.

Well, Mr Sir. Let me show you my masterpiece. I call it Town on Fire. You always told me I could do something spectacular. Now I have. Aren't you proud of me?

I don't think I've moved since I set fire to the eighth building. I can't stop staring. I burned my school, I burned a church, I burned three houses, I burned two stores and I burned the house I'm standing in front of now, and of all of them, this one is the most magnificent. The flames are growing higher and higher, licking the windows and burning the thatched roof, which might I say is going up a treat. This house is also detached, so it doesn't have any other buildings to steal its glory. The formerly cared-for garden is now pretty much in ashes. The gate and fence surrounding the garden were made of wood, so they didn't have much of a chance from the beginning. The windows are broken, giving way to the pretty flames, and there are all sorts of sparks flying off the roof and landing on the floor near where I'm standing. The reason that this is my favourite house on fire, I think, is because it's mine.

Hah, what on earth will my father do when he come home from Egypt to no house and a dead son?

I'm snapped out of my trance, if you will, when some woman runs into me. I get sort of knocked to the side while she keeps running. No apology or sign of concern as to whether I'm alright. It was very rude of her, actually. Good manners cost nothing, and if I hadn't finished up my matched earlier, her rudeness would have cost her the house she lives in. Perhaps her family if I felt particularly malicious. Although, she did seem to be in a bit of a hurry, and she was dressed in proper clothes as opposed to night clothes. Perhaps I did burn her house, or the fires spread to her house, while she was off having a good time. If I had the means to find out if that was true, and it was, I'd laugh at her. I'm sure they weren't perfect anyway; no one is. Everybody sins, at least now and again.

Just let them burn, lady; they deserve it.

I turn my attention back to my house. My burning house. I swear, it's never looked so good. Even before my father kept going to Egypt, and he spent every minute of his time decorating, changing things, buying furniture. Looking after the garden was my job. I was very small, and the house was very big to me; I thought it looked lovely. And it did. But it couldn't hold a candle to this house now. This gorgeous house. Best in the world.

I approach my front gate with some caution, as it's spitting tiny little flames towards me. I don't think it likes my masterpiece very much. I don't think anyone except me likes it so far. I wonder if Mr Sir will like it. If he hasn't seen it already, he'd better hurry up before they put it out. It looks better up close than on a news channel; things always do. He'll know it was mine, and he'll know it was my masterpiece; he said he'd recognise my work anywhere.

I kick my gate, and it comes right off its hinges. Clearly wouldn't have lasted much longer. I make my way down the path to my front door very slowly, and I just stand again, breathing my last breaths of fresh air. The door handle will burn me when I touch it. Then I'll go up the stairs to my room. If I haven't suffocated on the smoke by then, I'll lie down on the floor and go to sleep. They'll find me with burnt fingers if I'm still intact. With any luck I'll end up as ashes. I wish I'd be able to see my father's face when he hears about this; it'll be so priceless. I reach out for the door handle, and after hesitating for a fraction of a second I grasp it and open my front door.

Let all the sinners burn.

**Review please. I like reviews a lot.**


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